


Anyone Else But You

by solanummm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solanummm/pseuds/solanummm
Summary: It wasn’t going to be okay for a very long time. Perhaps not ever. And as Mary took her last breaths, the realisation that this wasall his faultreally struck home. Not as deadly as the bullet, but equally, gut wrenchingly, as painful.A bit of angst that fits in at the end of TST. John and Sherlock admit things to each other far too late.





	

Sherlock watched in horror as the bullet found its unintended target, slamming into Mary and although small, it looked as though it ripped into her with all the force of a car crash. Crimson blossomed across her top and then –

There was going to be no saving her from this. Despite John’s frantic, terrified whispers to both himself and her that it would be okay. 

It wasn’t going to be okay for a very long time. Perhaps not ever. And as Mary took her last breaths, the realisation that this was _all his fault_ really struck home. Not as deadly as the bullet, but equally, gut wrenchingly, as painful. 

In the end, she had been his best friend too. It had been the three of them against the world, rolling around each other like clock cogs, nights chasing criminals through grimy brick alleyways with John, evenings strategizing with Mary, afternoons spent drinking tea and watching shit television. 

She had complimented him just as well as John had, filling in his flaws so that they became a unit. 

And he had gone and fucked it all up just because he wanted to be clever. He’d taunted Vivian needlessly, pushing her right to the edge of the cliff face and he shouldn’t have been surprised when she pushed back. 

He should have taken that bullet.

He knew John would think so too.

He could do little but watch as his friend hunched over his dead wife’s body, wishing that he could cover his ears to the howling that echoed around the shark room. There was heartbreak, ruin and fury, all being released from John’s throat, a devastating culmination and Sherlock ached to do something. To kneel down and comfort John, to get on the floor and mourn as openly as he was, or just to bolt from this place and keep running until his legs gave way. 

They were splintered and as they left the aquarium to their separate destinations, Sherlock could feel John’s anger and Mary’s death collecting like bile in the back of his throat. Not even Mycroft had the means of fixing this.

221B felt emptier than ever on his return to it. The promises of future visits had been ripped from the place. He slumped against the doorframe, looking at a living room where he’d thought he’d watch the Watson family grow together, filling the place with their irritating laughter and their inane smiles and their warm, joyful presence. A family where somehow _somehow_ , he fit in.

He started shaking as he thought about John. It was as if his body couldn’t decide which emotion to feel first, a cocktail of anger, sorrow and panic washing through every vein, stripping him of all rational thought as if it were acid.

_John._

He’d once hated Mary for taking John from him. He’d become territorial, although he had no right to. He’d allowed himself, deep underground, between lashes of the whip, to recognise his love for the man.

But then – god knows where this part of him had come from – he’d realised that love meant letting go. It meant letting John be happy, because his smile had become Sherlock’s favourite sight, and that’s what Mary had done for John.

He’d let go and he’d tried his hardest to relax. He’d had stumbles, but he’d done it.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d leant against the door, eyes blurry from tears he wouldn’t let fall and a throbbing headache because of it, but for the first time in a long time, he realised he didn’t want to do any more feeling.

He’d become more human and less robot and right now he hated himself for it.

He moved mechanically to his room, and pulled up the edge of the carpet. Underneath it was a wrap containing a small amount of cocaine. Barely anything – a ‘just in case’ amount that he’d had hidden, safe from his brother’s useless drug sweeps and John’s occasional half hearted attempts.

Leaving a bump to dissolve in water, he went to the kitchen to find a needle. Somewhere in the draws amongst John’s crockery and Miss Hudson’s spoons and Lestrade’s bottle openers there had to be _something_. He needed to forget. 

The whole evening was causing him to fragment, he was cracking, breaking apart and he needed this.

‘Looking for something?’ Every other time Sherlock had heard that question fall from his brother’s lips, it had been cocky, tinged with some perverse _looks like I’m sending my baby brother to rehab again_ amusement. This time he just sounded sad, like he couldn’t believe that Sherlock had thought he’d be able to use and get away with it.

‘Why are you here Mycroft?’ He couldn’t decide whether to be mad or grateful for his company. Some tugging feeling at his gut pointed out that Mary wouldn’t have wanted this – that she’d have been distressed at Sherlock’s relapse. He beat down that feeling with the look of pure loathing John had given him as he looked up from Mary’s body.

‘Because I know you’re better than this.’ There was still no scorn, no arrogance, but sorrow had not wrecked Sherlock enough yet that he wasn’t frustrated at the pity Mycroft must be feeling towards him right now.

‘And yet you didn’t send a couple of lackeys to usher me into a car and lock me in a padded room for this next week. Don’t you dare start personal check ins like I’m some kind of infant just because you feel sorry for me.’

Mycroft swirled his next sentence around in his mouth before speaking. ‘I’m not here out of pity. I’m here because of a rare burst of sentiment. You’ve lost a friend and I’d rather stop the rest of your friends loosing you. Look at how your hands are shaking. Do you think that you could find a vein right now? Sensibly measure out a safe dosage?’

‘I’m an addict.’ Sherlock bared his teeth like a scared dog, something wild flashing in his eyes, although distilled with a slowly sinking sense of defeat. ‘It’s what we do.’

‘And John Watson? What will he do without you?’

He scoffed, a pained hiccup of a laugh. ‘John? I’m shit on his shoe now. His wife died because of _me_. She took a bullet meant for me and for what? I should have died. That bullet was my mistake and now John and his infant daughter have to deal with the fall out.’

‘If you were thinking rationally, you’d realise that the bullet was your mistake, but Mary’s choices were her own. She was a highly trained agent – she knew what the consequences would be when taking a bullet to the chest at close range. What she wouldn’t want you to do with the life she’s given you is squander it shooting dope into your veins.’

Sherlock slumped. He was right. He owed it to the Watson’s to do right where he’d failed them, not to spiral miserably in it. 

‘What do I do now?’ 

‘Anything but that.’ Mycroft nodded at the wrap Sherlock had set down by the sink. ‘You can work and you can wait to see what John has to say.’

‘Do you have a case?’

‘The black pearl of the –‘

‘-Borgias. Fine. Bring the files in the morning. And Mycroft?’

‘Yes?’

‘Please take it away.’ Sherlock nodded to the coke. ‘Or I’m going to do it. I don’t want to, but I will.’

Mycroft nodded, picking it up and sliding it into his pocket. Then he pressed a small box of slim cigarettes into Sherlock’s hands. ‘Don’t go out and find anymore.’

‘…I won’t.’

Mycroft left and Sherlock slunk to the kitchen floor, the hot hands of grief finally overcoming him in huge sobs.

 

He tried to distract himself. 

He wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t eating and he had a head fuzzy from remorse and resisting the sharp pang of craving. But he was working and waiting.

He tried to message John a hundred times.

_John, I’m sorry_. Bland. Wrong. Obvious.

_John if you need me, I’ll be at your side immediately._ Too like the promise he’d made then broken.

_John, I need to fix this._ How?

Just _’John’_. He knew there was nothing that could be said.

And then, a week later, John turned up out of the blue.

Sherlock was a mess. The bags under his eyes were deep purple smudges, his hair limp and his skin tinged almost green.

He flung open the flat door to find John almost a mirror image of him on the other side.

‘Oh.’ He sucked in a breath, the sight of him unnervingly refreshing. ‘John.’

‘Can I – come in?’ If he hadn’t been able to deduce anything from John’s expression, his tone gave it all away. It was curt and Sherlock could hear that none of the anger had gone away. It broke Sherlock’s heart all over again to see his best friend hate him so much.

‘Please do.’

John walked into the living room, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

Sherlock walked over to him, although every instinct told him there was a good chance he’d get punched. He didn’t care. He’d deserve it.

‘Look, John –‘

‘No.’ John couldn’t even look him in the eye. ‘Don’t. I want to talk, then I’m leaving and we won’t see each other for a very long time.’

This wasn’t what Sherlock wanted. His life was crumbling around him and he couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t have John in it. It was what had kept him going far past the mark he thought he’d get to. He was going to drown and he had no idea what he needed to grab to stop himself from going under.

‘I hate you.’ He said quietly. ‘I can’t stand you. You took away Rosie’s mum and all because you wanted to be a cocky bastard. But Sherlock –‘

Sherlock wished he would look at him. But he also wished John would leave, stop saying these awful things, these awful, true things. If John was going to leave Sherlock’s life, couldn’t he go without doing this? 

‘- I still love you. It’s messed up, isn’t it? That all this can happen and my heart can’t let you go.’

He was reeling. He’d wanted to hear this. He’d wanted to hear it for years, but not like this. Not as some parting comment. This was meant to come with hugs and lingering kisses and nights spent in bed tangled with one and other.

Never like this.

‘John, I-‘

‘Fuck Sherlock.’ And now he turned to look at him. ‘I always imagined it would be me and you in the end. I dared to fucking hope and then you left and Mary came along and I wanted that too. But now I have neither of you and I hate. You. For. It.’

‘You still have me.’ _Please. I can’t loose you. Not now I know this_.

John let out a dark burst of laughter. ‘No. It’s time to say goodbye Sherlock. Before we get any more people hurt.’

‘I know you hate me, but I want to help. I want to help John.’ Against his better logic, Sherlock reached out and grabbed one of John’s fists - accepting a punch should it come – and kissed his knuckles. He saw John melt slightly.

‘You can’t help me seeing Mary’s body every time I close my eyes. You can’t fix my anger every time I look at you. Christ Sherlock.’

He resisted retreating to his mind palace, despite every firing neurone in his body telling him to flee. He had a chance to fix this. He had to.

‘Let me try.’

‘I came to say good bye.’

John uncurled the fist that Sherlock was holding to his face, splaying his fingers round the back of his head.

Then before Sherlock knew what was happening, John was pulling him into a kiss.

For all the energy between them, for all the malice and the fear, the kiss was tender. The brush of their lips was sweet, but tinged with regret, and Sherlock shivered with it as John ran his tongue along his sensitive bottom lip.

John pressed harder, digging his fingernails into Sherlock’s neck and something inside him sparked. Something carnal that burnt through the tiredness he was feeling, giving way to desperation. He wanted this. He’d wanted this for so long and he was going to take it. If John was really going away, then all Sherlock’s terrified thoughts about what would happen if they ever tried for something more could be repressed.

The kiss gave way to kisses, hot and fierce, John’s grip becoming firmer, their breaths becoming faster. He untucked John’s shirt, sliding his hands underneath it and running them along his back, wanting to touch as much of John as he could in the short time they’d granted themselves. He scraped his fingernails neck to tailbone and John gasped, bucking against Sherlock’s leg. They writhed against each other, rubbing and pressing, heads clouded with lust.

‘I’ve wanted this for so long.’ Sherlock’s voice was utterly guttural as John broke the kiss to suck a violent hickey into his neck. ‘I want you to fuck me.’

John pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest, the gesture surprisingly vulnerable. He could feel him trembling slightly and didn’t understand.

‘I want that too.’ His voice was slightly muffled and despite the erection Sherlock could feel straining against his thigh, he sounded adorable. ‘Just, God, I wish we’d done this sooner.’

A sharp pang of sadness shot through Sherlock’s chest. He didn’t say anything, but slipped a hand underneath John’s chin, bringing his mouth to his own again.

When John tired of kissing, he pulled them into Sherlock’s bedroom, stripping them both.

Sherlock hissed as John wrapped his hand around his length, pumping it up and down.

‘Do you want me inside you?’ His thumb smeared a bead of precum over his slit, and Sherlock whimpered, his hands scrambling to find purchase in the bedspread.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’ He moved his hand slightly faster, Sherlock openly panting now.

‘Yes. Please. Please fuck me.’ He reached into the bedside draw and passed John some lube.

‘Turn over for me.’

Sherlock planted his face in the pillows, ass up and let out a loud moan as John’s tongue unexpectedly ran over his hole. He pressed back, wanting more, letting out needy little gasps as John licked at him.

John prepared him fast, ignoring Sherlock’s desperate pleas to just fuck him.

He’d never wanted anything so badly. He was steadily leaking a trail of precum all over his bedsheets, and he didn’t _care_ , he just needed John inside him, he needed everything to be alright again.

John slipped his fingers out of Sherlock. ‘Turn back over for me love.’

He didn’t even seem to register the pet name, but Sherlock did and a warm wave of affection crashed over him.

‘Are you ready?’ John was lined up at his hole, waiting for Sherlock’s nod.

‘God yes.’

He pushed into him, filling him completely, and they both moaned, overwhelmed at the sensation. Sherlock wriggled his hips, urging John to move faster.

‘Fuck me.’

John used a hand to pin both of Sherlock’s wrists behind him. ‘I love it when you beg me.’

Moving quickly, he slammed into him, hard, setting a punishing pace, both of them sweating and moaning profusely. John moved his mouth down to Sherlock’s, swallowing his gasps.

Sherlock could feel himself getting closer, his orgasm heavy in the bottom of his stomach.

‘John, I’m going to –‘ 

John moved a hand down to Sherlock’s cock, pumping up and down. ‘Come for me.’

His vision went hazy as he came, crying out John’s name, covering them both. He could feel John panting against him as he pumped his hips a couple more times, groaning as he spilled inside Sherlock, then flopping onto his chest, spent.

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, curled against each other and catching their breaths. Sherlock dared to wrap his arms around John, holding him tight. He dared to believe everything was going to be okay.

He thought he could feel tears on his chest.

Eventually John sat up and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. 

‘I’ll just go and grab a towel to clean us up.’

When he came back, he was fully dressed. 

Sherlock’s heart sank as John leant over him and carefully wiped down his stomach, avoiding his gaze again.

‘For what it’s worth John.’ He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice sounding utterly wrecked. ‘I love you too.’

John looked at him then and smiled sadly.

‘It’s not enough though, is it?’

 

Sherlock didn’t really believe John had meant the goodbye until he turned up at his house.

Surely, after all that, there had to be something? 

But when he meets Molly’s gaze, he knows. That he’s lost him forever.

‘Anyone else but you.’

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd so please feel free to point out any mistakes, I'd appreciate it! Looking forward to tomorrow's episode, even if I am going to miss Mary. Please leave kudos if you enjoyed, it'd mean the world to me :)


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